


Childhood Stories

by AnyaElizabeth



Category: Torchwood
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-11-23
Updated: 2009-11-23
Packaged: 2017-10-03 15:14:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,684
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19495
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AnyaElizabeth/pseuds/AnyaElizabeth
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Some moments from the Torchwood team's childhoods.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Childhood Stories

**Owen**

"All women are whores, Owen," growled his father, and the smell of alcohol was enough to floor a skinny little boy like him. His father's grip on his shoulder was tight and he wanted to cry, but he knew how much that annoyed his dad.

"Filthy fucking whores," he continued, slurring, wobbling forward a little to choke Owen more with his breath. "Y'mum, especially. She's kicking me out cos she's an ungrateful bitch, you remember that, boy."

Owen looked at his father, full of terror, and somewhere deep within him he knows what is going to happen. His father is leaving, and this time it's very serious. He knows it in the nausea that fills his stomach, the same one that eats at him as he sits on the stairs at night when all that can be heard is the shouting.

"Fuck that," says his father. "Fuck her. I'm off."

The shouting is too loud and he can hear his mother crying in the kitchen and it feels like everything is rushing to his head, stopping his thoughts, just filling him to the brim with wretched feeling. His dad is struggling to stand, and scrabbling for the car keys. Owen stares up at him.

"I'm off, you silly bitch! Happy now?" he yells, too loud. He's managed to get the door open, and Owen feels like he should do something, but he's just one small boy in a maelstrom of misery. His dad looks back before he leaves, before he slams the door a final time, and Owen will remember his muttered words for the rest of his life.

"Stop looking like that, boy. Raised a fucking pansy, I did."

He's mumbling more as the door slams, but Owen doesn't hear. He's finally crying, crumpled and scared in the hallway, and in that one moment he hates more than he has ever hated in his life. He _hates,_ and it scares and hurts him, how much he hates his dad for leaving and hates his mother for being the one he's left behind, and it consumes him.

He hates them, that much is true, but in that moment, the one he hates most is himself.

  
**Gwen**

The school gates opened, and a small girl with dark brown curls ran to meet the young couple stood just outside, pressing her head into her mother's thigh. She's crying her heart out, but her muffled story is eventually interpreted; her best friend only only put her as third best and her second best friend went off with her all lunchtime, and when she'd fallen over on the way out of the gate they'd both laughed at her.

Her parents shared a look. Little Gwen cried an awful lot at school sometimes; it was because she was sensitive, they both agreed, she felt things very strongly, especially when it came to acceptance by her peers.

"Listen, sweetie, you know why it is," said her mam. "Your friend was just upset. Is this Rhi, the one who pushed you last week? There you go. She's probably jealous. That makes people do bad things sometimes. Come on, _cariad_, hush up now."

The little girl stopped crying. Her pretty face crumpled as she tried to process what her mother had said.

"Your mam's right. The best way to deal with people who upset you is to try and understand them," said her dad, scooping her up and giving her a hug. "Usually they are much less happy than you. Sometimes they have unhappy families or no families at all. You're lucky, _cariad_," he said, as the girl nestled closer. "You'll always have a mummy and a daddy who love you. No matter what."

The little curly-haired girl was still sniffling a bit, but she looked much happier. Her dad looked at her and grinned.

"That's much better. Shall we get an ice cream on the way home?"

  
**Ianto**

It was a good turnout. Better than she'd get, she thought. There was an advantage to dying young; you'd get a few more than just the vicar and resentful offspring at your funeral, bickering over their inheritance. That and you didn't have to live through this intolerable old age.

Of course, there were children at this funeral, too, Tristan's offspring. Her great-niece, who looked blankly at nothing. Her little great-nephew, solemn and suited, with his mother's hands on his shoulders. His mother was weeping in an unattractive fashion, but he just stared into the grave, spine straight, hands behind his back. They told her he was brilliant at school; she didn't think much of that. Give her a boy with a strong back and a good work ethic, any day.

The vicar's words would have been moving if she hadn't long ceased to believe them. The little boy stayed stone still, not a tear. She had to give him credit for that. Even when his mother was crying into the arms of some lad in a suit, the boy just stood and stared at the distance.

She caught his arm as he stood awkwardly beside her wheelchair. He looked afraid of her. Back in the day, she remembered that children loved her, and the boys would flock to her side. Now, she was old and withered and half-mad from the boredom of it.

"He won't be the last one you'll lose, lad," she said, and he looked as if he wanted to squirm but restrained himself well. "Mark my words, life is pain, and they'll all be after you in the end."

The boy stared, silently processing. He nodded solemnly. She was about to pat him on the back, but her wretched youngest son caught her by the arm.

"You better not be giving him any of your bile, mam," he said. "Take no notice of her, boyo. Silly old windbag, going senile in her old age."

"Perhaps if one of you wretched lazy arses bothered to look after your poor old mam, I'd be better off!" she wailed. She scowled up at the lad. She was sure she knew his name, but she couldn't...

She looked at the little boy still staring at her. What a brat, what was he standing there for?

"They all die, drop like stones, all covered in dirt. My Alfred..."

"Come on now," said the familiar man softly, and wheeled her away. She'd not remember the exchange by the time she got into the car, but if she'd looked back she would have seen a small boy stare after her for a very long time.

**Jack  
**  
The first sexual lesson Captain Jack Harkness ever learned was that sand was not an ideal surface to be naked and writhing upon.

The second sexual lesson he learned was that he liked sex, a lot.

The third lesson was that he was very, very good at it, but it took him a few tries to realise that one.

Still, the boy who would be Jack Harkness did not start out worldly. No, at the start it had been innocent touches and shy looks at school, and a beautiful older boy who seemed enchanted, like so many more would be, by those bright blue eyes. There was no seduction; all awkward limbs and growth spurts, they were both as shy as any teen in any era on any planet in the universe. They spent the summer playing ball on the beaches, swimming and climbing trees and fighting in the sand, and when they fell down together and kissed in the twilight, neither of them would have dreamt to question it. Curiosity and exploring hands and a sparkling smile that in a few years would blossom into dazzling, and they were both unclothed and warm against each other, glowing in the setting sun.

They lay down together afterwards, joyful and glad, and wrapped themselves in each others arms.

"I hope it feels like this forever," murmured the boy who was not yet Captain Jack Harkness, and the pair of them fell asleep under the stars.

**Tosh**

Maths. She'd always loved it. There was never a wrong answer in maths, never a faux-pas to be made. Not so in the world of boys.

Not that she wanted anything to do with boys. They were too complicated, too many rules had to be followed, and she was not pretty or exciting enough to attract one anyway. Who wanted a girl who went not to parties but to science fairs?

Of course, she wanted to go to the parties, too, but her parents would never allow it. And boys? Boys were to be kept at arms length, until you find one suitable to marry. Only once did she think to use her usual pursuits as an alibi for a party, and that was because the one boy she'd liked for ever and ever, the cool, sarcastic boy who sat in front of her in lessons, had asked her to come. She'd carefully dressed in a low-cut top and high heels, and covered it with her biggest coat. She'd not known anyone there very well, but that was okay, because Mark would look after her, right?

Mark had ignored her all night, until she'd drunk too much and staggered out for air. And then suddenly, as though he'd never left her side all night, he was outside with her. And he'd been too pushy and she'd never had good taste in men, and he had a hand under her shirt before she decided that she really did not want this. He'd not liked no as an answer, and it had been ugly and frightening and out-of-control, but she'd slammed those stupid high heels into his foot and ran all the way home.

She'd been grounded for a week, but it was nothing to her fury when she thought of that night.

That was when she decided. Maths. Maths would never manipulate, never push, always progress in a logical fashion to a concrete conclusion. If she was going to have love in her life, it would be maths, and she'd never look at a boy again.  



End file.
